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Thursday, October 9, 2008

Speaking in Tongues

Speaking In Tongues by Mary Rose O'Reilley

I go to church every Sundaythough I don’t believe a word of it,because the longing for Godis a prayer said in the bones.

When people call on JesusI move to a place in the bodywhere such words rise,one of the valleyswhere hope pins itself to desire;we have so much landscape like thatyou’d think we were made to sustain a cry.

When the old men around melift their handsas though someone has cornered them,giving it all away,I remember a dock on the estuary,watching a heron get airborne against the odds.It’s the transitional moment that baffles me—how she composes her ricketygrocery cart of a bodyto make that flight.

The pine siskin, stalled on a windy coast,remembers the woodsshe will long for when needs arise; sothe boreal forest composes itself in my mind:first as a rift, absence, then in a tumble of wordsundone from sense, like the stutteryou hear when somebody fallsover the cliff of language. Call it a gift.

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